Wilfrid’s intellectual sympathies were being aroused by his new friend’s original way of talking. He began to feel a keen satisfaction at having her near him in these troubles.
‘Do you think,’ he asked, returning to his immediate needs, ‘that I might write to her?’
‘Not yet; you mustn’t think of it yet.’
‘Does Mrs. Hood—’ he hesitated. ‘Do you think Emily has told her mother—has spoken to her of me?’
Mrs. Baxendale looked surprised. ‘I can’t say; I took it for granted.’
‘I wonder why she was reluctant to do so?’ Wilfrid said, already speaking with complete freedom. ‘Her father cannot have known; it would have relieved his worst anxieties; he would surely never have been driven to such things.’
‘No; I think not. The poor girl will feel that, I fear. I suppose one can get a glimpse of
